Come merry Spring delight us,
For Winter long did spight us,
In pleasure still persever,
Thy beauties ending never:
Spring, and grow
With joyes increasing ever.
Let cold from hence be banish'd,
Till hopes from me be vanish'd,
But blesse thy daynties growing
In fulnesse freely flowing:
Sweet Birds sing
For the Spring,
All mirth is now bestowing.
Philomel in this Arbour
Makes now her loving Harbour,
Yet of her state complaining,
Her Notes in mildnesse strayning,
Which thought sweet,
Yet doe meet.
Her former lucklesse paining.
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Comments about this poem (93 by Mary Wroth )
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